"Myths are the dreams of extraordinary dreamers… You are living a myth, a myth that has been handed down to you for safekeeping. You cannot be the recipient of this myth unless you are irreproachable. If you are not, the myth will simply move away from you." Florinda Donner, Being-In-Dreaming

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“Our people made supplicant offerings for the ascension of the sun. Birth Clans, immersed in their own rapture, danced their astounding anticipation of rebirth, virile and erect, sweating profusely. The Oak Clan women divined for protection and peacefulness. The Crones rejoiced over the apples that had remained steadfast against hunger, and gave their blessings to resume spinning and weaving. Most meditated for good fortune between the legs of our Life Givers and sprung from their worship would be another wave of newborns to our people.

The Greihound sat in the ash smudge peering with profound clarity into the world of our people. Their hearths burned with a cleansing fire while ours ignited the blue flames of the dreamtime. We reached into aching joints and congested chests drawing off the chill into ourselves and dissipating it into the smoke. The magicians of all clans worked long into the nights with us, divining for blessings of health, freedom from pain, and fruitful hunts. Although the sun had been born again the river remained frozen in the Winter Wait. Bread became a sacrament and fire pits became temples to the Ancient Ones. The creatures that had been sacrificed so that we could survive transmuted into the Divine Messengers of the Infinite Present. So too came the fever of love and we, nearly four moons into the depths of the Season of Dreams, became acutely aware that those not being consumed by winter waited it out together, perspiring in athletic embraces hidden beneath piles of deer robes. It was an excruciating temptation to steal into those passionate nests ourselves. No one would dare whisper the word “thigh” without risking being ejected out to the ledge.”

“I was grateful that neither the wind nor the cold would be challenging, and we set our pace to the harmonic beauty that surrounded us. Before long we were well away from the village and entombed in the profound silence that attended peaceful, falling snow. Occasionally, the quiet was punctuated by the river’s song. Creatures rustled in the underbrush, now softened and insulated beneath several inches of snow. Everything appeared as though it in had been coated with a thick layer of glowing, white wax. There wasn’t a breath of air, and no breeze disturbed a single snowflake from the place where it had come to rest. Every now and then the sharp pop of a breaking branch drew our attention to the spirits that intently watched our passage through their habitats. Giant oaks, pines, and birches towered over us. Each was dressed in the sparkling finery of snow. The gorge was utterly enchanting, glowing in the twilight; a ravine that saw little sunlight even after the leaves had fallen in the Winter Wait.”

“As the nights grew imperceptibly longer my visions of clarity and order of the dreamtime became more penetrating. The unifying forces of the sun and the moon moved me easily through the transformation that would mark my rebirth to the Death Clans. The harvest was in and my endless trips for wood were over. Guardian spirits had taken over to protect our effort, we again at the mercy of the Winter Wait. Last came the ritual slaughter of the boar, ram, and bull that had given over their lives that we might persist through it. Their death was sweet and and swift at the hands of those who claimed their blood. The tribe feasted on a small portion of the meat, putting up the rest in smoke huts. The last of the old mead was mixed with the new for the healing magic of a good harvest. We celebrated our success and joy, our long journeys and safe returns. We went to the springs to be reminded that there ran a thread of harmony and balance even in disorder and desperation. We played the last of the ritual summer games, giving over our lives to whatever rebirth we anticipated after the Death Spasm. Before my departure to the valley of the caves the tribe honored the twin spirits that allowed us to stand guard over the Winter Wait, and the Twilight Women who taught us to exist in two worlds. Accompanying my mother, we went to gather the bones, and feast with the Ancient Ones of Clan Oak. I also took in the blessing of the great rut of the Stag.”

“The blinding blue of fall urging us to harvest washed over me with shimmering anticipation. The land was alive with the Old Ones, their presence so clear it was difficult to distinguish between those who were of the flesh and those who were free of it. When all else ripened for the Winter Wait, I prepared to be awakened to the dreamtime, one of fifty to guard the sleep of our people. While they nestled into resolute patience we watched alert from the ancient birthplace. Only a handful of us clung to the Old Way out of which we were sprung and to which we always returned….”

Once a year the animal fraternities met at the Great Circle for the Showoff Dance. At first it appeared that the dance was the exaltation of the undeniable strength of Clan Male. Shoot after shoot came in to take its place on the spiral, filling the air with the thick odor of virile flexing. It was difficult not to admire the competition. The most extraordinary bodies of every group would be put up for the dance, clad only in paint, clan headdresses, and breechclouts designed more to reveal than protect. Our hot-blooded purpose sustained by the volatile energy contained in the drum would rise rapidly in our loins. Our scant attire insured that our prowess was displayed advantageously for the women to scrutinize to their heart’s content. This was no celebration of the Alpha Male, it was a harvest dance for the Crones. We were there to showoff in the often-desperate hope we would be plucked from the Tree of Life and devoured.

“The solstice ceremony marked the pinnacle point from which the year spiraled almost imperceptibly to the Winter Wait. The magic of the Life Givers rose to its astonishing essential and yielded to its natural passive flow. We were nothing without the sun, the river, and the blood of our people borne in our magnificent women. There were hundreds of bonfires spreading a warmth and security that permeated our villages, homes, beds, and hearts. In the grasslands torches bound together with nettle were lovingly placed in the fields and near the favored grazing spots of creatures that would give over their lives. Hills, rocks, and sacred places were anointed with copious amounts of holy oils sharing the abundance with the Mother who had brought us life…

The psalms born through the Consummate Artists played the heartstrings of all that we were. They moved us from measured intonation to dissolute fervor. We clung, cried, danced, prayed, and made love in inexhaustible joy. The women gathered in the last of the medicine plants, still vital with life but dying before us to the birth of the new cycle. As the sun reached for the horizon we stood in poignant stillness. I too waited for what could be my northern-most sunset.”

Letters to the Unborn is a diary that chronicles the journey through a long ritual for the moon. It recognizes the moon’s eighteen and half year journey, and requires months of preparation. We no longer observe rituals of such magnitude but Letters to the Unborn provides you the opportunity to be a part of one.

Rather than chapter numbers I have provided the dates on which the entry should be read, beginning with May 1. If you follow the journey you will experience how months of preparation culminate when a ritual commences. I highly recommend that you read the entries on the dates provided. If you do you are in for a treat, a genuine firsthand experience of the challenges and aspirations of a hunter-gatherer culture that knows that its time is passing into myth.

On May 1 just click on Letters to the Unborn in the main menu and have a fabulous summer journey.

“The stillness of the hideaway began to work its magic. Night had fallen: the whole world had been entombed by cold. And yet this sheltered habitat was impervious to it. Steam rose into the nightblack, condensed, crystallized, and fell on us like soft snowflakes. We laughed and kissed. When not locked together we caressed each other or poked fun at our aging vessels. Sometimes I think we just slept, conjoined twins still safe and hidden in our Mother’s womb. When again awake our intimate ceremony continued where it had left off. What was it about hot water on a penetrating, bitter night? It was something cellular, a memory stringing back to the fiery beginnings of Earth. Then we were only molecular dreams looking opportunistically for each other, binding together to create the compounds of life, our life. Flesh to flesh our bodies still remembered the loneliness of that search and the utter joy of microscopic union. It didn’t matter how complex our form had become, love was the spark of Creation, eternal, exquisite, everlasting.”

“….The tenure of her life had not been good to her nor to anyone she had ever known; they ascending from infinite numbers whose spirits had been repeatedly broken. The brutality born out of relentless conflict had spread from open vehemence to secret horrors shrouded in sleeping chambers. Women and children had become the targets of unimaginable aberrance as men acted out the violence unleashed from their blood. Executed or exiled to servitude, Clan Female clandestinely polished its stamina.

“…..She rationalized that the pain could be outrun or hidden, just as her predecessors had done, and the dreamtime would keep her safe from the cruelty. Her spirit, camouflaged by the Infinite Present, could never be touched. But she had exploded into the midst of her life. The blood of the oppressed was seeping into reality, first a trickle her and there, then bleeding profusely, unstoppably, from countless wounds. It was the hemorrhage of a thousand women who had come before her, and had waited in silence.”

“Northernmost villagers with the exception of Death Clans avoided the Old Granite Range. They believed it too heavily populated by shades to ever enjoy any comfort or serenity. But anyone with a love for antiquity was grateful it was never overrun. They feared that the magic would shrivel and disappear if trampled by excessive human endeavor. The people here walked gently on the Earth, having already detected that little by little the enchantment was fleeing to the Shadowland. They understood that all would be turned outside in. Everything we regarded as sacred would vanish back to the spirit world from which it had emerged. This was the consequence of neglect and self-involvement turned aberrant. In effort to maintain some semblance of balance, old souls like Moondog and those born with ancient propensities made inordinate sacrifices. But they all knew in the deepest recesses of their hearts that their worship only delayed the inevitable end. The tide of technology would never be stemmed.

On our way Moondog and I stopped to pray about those things. He search a pouch and retrieved a sparkling, black glass shard, slashing his hand and allowing his blood to flow unimpeded to the Earth. I knew that he believed that somehow that simple act would make a difference. Witnessing his sacrifice made my heart hurt knowing that uncountable generations beyond him would suffer. Many would stand helpless or be victimized, even destroyed by the rape perpetuated against the Earth by those who wielded unnatural avarice. I hoped Moondog couldn’t conceive of the scope of the devastation that would reign down around the people after he was gone.

….But lamenting the future from here made no sense. After all, I had been assigned harbinger, conveyor of secrets from the past, clinging to the expectation that that might make a difference as well.”

“The wind whispers in the salt marsh, “Open up to receive the seed.” Consecrated the Life Givers repose to take the consensual host, free and alive. Animals blessed with flowers and smoke are released to the hills to range in the bliss. Grain lost to the Winter Wait explodes to tender, quivering chartreuse. The willow rustles, on its shiny crimson length perch the amorous dances of the lapwings. We offer ourselves to the beauty, praying for blessings of gentle rain, bursting kernels, and the warm breath of our Mother. Green tongues of cattail poke through the spring thaw like the secret kisses of young girls nudging the lips of their lovers. Birth Clans whirl, faces hidden behind their ancestral beginnings, rods rigid to the imperative. Our people dance the delirious welcome to summer.

“The Bard grunts in breathless gyration, teasing the inflamed young ones and igniting the recollection in those no longer driven by fire. He pauses as though inspired by a forgotten memory; scratching his chin he turns to face the Valley of the Caves. His arm raised he sights past its length as though it were an arrow drawn on the string of a bow, and points with a crooked finger toward the Predators and Great Flesh Eaters. Crushed under the draft of his unblinking stare the Winter Wait flickers out and the Death Clans, spent in the dreamtime, die back to the Mother.”

The Death Clans enter the spiral to celebrate the birth of the sun. Eagles, Badgers, Ravens, Owls, Lynx, Wolves, and Greihound dance the sacred for their people. The Mother moves their feet; they lift their arms awe-struck by Her power. Skins and feathers mix with guttural, rhythmic prayers. I drift into their dreamtime, Darkling Light prods me to stay alert, “Don’t watch the others, you stand for Moondog and Greihound.” I feel him stirring inside me like a wisp of smoke that rises from an extinguished candle. I watch it disappear. He comes again, growling, teeth bared. (I’m alert! I’m alert!). He licks my lips renewed to his sacrament. Grasping the need I stand for days, centuries, six thousand years, filling his tender belly with delicacies of my ether as he fills mine, dancing the rapture for all of us. Calvinist ancestors cover their eyes, others I catch peeking between their fingers, they realizing that savagery was never cruel.

Flesh Eaters nearly naked whirl in air so frigid the snow feels warm to their skin and melts into the Earth. Rhythmically they reach between their moving feet touching the soil, offering the traces on their fingertips to the sun, never missing a step, believing the magic will always work.

Did you know that most of the tribes in North America were Mesolithic when Europeans arrived a mere 500 years ago? No doubt nearly all of us have met the descendants, still alive today, of some of these cultures. It is commonly thought that the Mesolithic era is locked into antiquity and most of it has been lost to history. That isn’t true.

If you are European American knowing your own tribe is more problematic. The Mesolithic era there ended more than 5000 years ago and information about them is hard to come by. But it can be done, having been my quest for decades. The result of this long and arduous search is systematically being posted on this website.

Should you have an interest in knowing your European tribe or exploring the Mesolithic era I invite you to click on Essays and begin reading Introduction to Mesolithic Britain.